Serenaded by the faint, hollow tick
that is the heartbeat of a clock,
as the faucet drips all sick,
and the window welcomes a willow’s knock.
Shadows waltz around as a trick,
wanting to be able to talk,
hungry for peaches previously picked
in the garden of a hallowed hawk.
The air damp from Nature’s sour lick,
bringing the discomfort of a damp sock,
flowing a river of memory between the brick,
encasing the cell in a tormented caulk.